Finally, about three years late, I sat down and watched Charlie Kaufman’s Synecdoche, New York . (Thanks Anne E.)
It takes some doing, and then you let yourself go with it and then, well, it’s a complete romp of brutal acceptance and sadness.
You can figure out the narrative by the end. But basically…well, I don’t even want to talk about what it is because if I do it will sound so trivial.
He made this movie based on the definition, sort of, of the word synecdoche. Look it up. But really, it’s about living-connection.
Jon Brion, movie music (and other music) genius is in attendance making it even more suspended.
Outrageous cast of talented wonders. Hoffman, Watson, Keener, Davis, Williams, Wiest.
Years ago, I was at one of those summer pool parties in Brentwood or Bel Air or some sort of town that started with the letter B. Charlie Kaufman was there, friend of close friends. And he was so kind and he had just come off his success of Being John Malkovich, a big fluke, really, and he was so grateful. A spec script that saw the sun. He was physically unassuming and bashful and fantastic.
(Is it completely tacky to mention this superficial connection? Fuck it. I’m tacky.)
And then to this…
I was sort of blubberpussing on the sofa. But then, I don’t experience time linearly, so this movie was for me, exactly. Because, really, everything is happening at once and he got that and he shot that. Balls to do it. Smart, sad and right. We’re all dead. He doesn’t even say we should live well because of that. Maybe nods to it, a bit.
After you see it, you might need to read about it. Or maybe, read about it before you see it. You got the Google.
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